Blue Girl VIITitle: Blue Girl VII
Classification: SA
Keywords: none
Rating: NC-17
Thanks: as always, to realb, Karri, and Liam
Feedback: please, to lil_gusty@hotmail.com
Distribution: not that you would, but you could.  Just let me 
              know.
Disclaimer: These characters don't belong to me, they belong to 
            Mr. Chris Carter, lucky bastard.
Summary: "Do any human beings ever realize life while they live 
         it? - every, every minute?"  (From "Our Town" by 
         Thornton Wilder).  Sequel to Blue Girl VI.

It was the time of morning when normal people were snuggled 
together in comfortable beds, soundly sleeping.  A few were 
perhaps making love.  The pace was lazy and casual - no one had 
anywhere to be until the sun rose, and everyone was desperately 
hoping that it never would.

Scully was asleep beside him, sunk into his bed like she'd 
forgotten what soft and warm were.  He lay still, one arm draped 
across her stomach, lightly holding her against him.  Just beyond 
the slight rise of her nose he could see the clock glowing red in 
the darkness.  Each time a number changed, he restarted his 
mental count of her even breaths.

She hadn't awoken all night, but earlier, she had started to 
whimper and fight against him, murmuring for him to let her go 
and not to hurt her, please don't hurt her.  He'd lowered his 
lips to her ear, and softly breathed that she was safe; her body 
had gone taunt.

"Mulder?"  She asked, dazed with sleep.

"Yeah," he answered, and she relaxed again, never even opening 
her eyes.

She looked so much like that woman he'd shared fear and hesitant 
trust with in Alaska so long ago.  Still strong, still stubborn, 
but suffocating under the heavy burden of self-doubt and asking 
"what if..."  They'd managed to survive then against nature and 
possible alien worms, surely they could survive now.

If only so many things hadn't changed, she might be able to get a 
good foothold on her life; she might be able to catch a glimpse 
of what had been to encourage her to have it again.

He would take the day off of work.  Call her mother, let her know 
she was safe, call his friend from the Army to see if he could 
talk to her soon.  Start her off on the right path.  She was 
ready now, she'd come back to him.  It was up to her to remain on 
the path they would cut together.

He hoped she could.  She was strong, and she was resilient.  When 
she was determined, he might as well get out of her way and let 
her by - the past few months had been a testament to that.  She 
would get through, and she would be stronger because she faced 
her pain and made peace with it.

Maybe he could take a few tips about that making peace with it 
part.  Yes, he realized now that Samantha disappearing and dying 
wasn't his fault, but not Scully.  Not yet.

She liked baths, he remembered.  He'd run her warm one when she 
awoke and she could soak until she pruned.  He'd make her 
breakfast and watch her as she pushed most of it around her 
plate, but ate some.  More than she had yesterday.  More every 
day.  And everything would start to be fine.

Yes.

He lay still and watched the red numbers change, watched her 
slight chest rise and fall, rise and fall, until the sky outside 
was purple and ready.

<><><><><><>

She stirred, rolling instinctively towards his warmth, tensing 
when she felt his arm weighing her down.

"It's okay," he whispered, grinning at her.  "You're okay."

She moaned contently, burrowing further into the covers and 
leaning into him.

"Scully?"

"Mmm?"

He grinned again.  "It's after one thirty in the afternoon."

Her eyes popped open, and she was staring straight at his bare 
chest.  "Is that bad?"

"No.  You were always an early riser, though.  I figured you'd be 
up with the sun."

She shook her head almost sadly, closing her eyes again.

"You needed the rest, though.  You can go back to sleep, if you 
want."

Moaning something indicating that this option was acceptable, she 
turned onto her stomach.  He pulled the covers over her 
shoulders, smoothing them over her back lazily.

"I talked to your mother," he began in his lowest voice before a 
whisper.  "She's glad you're safe and she misses you.  She wants 
you to call her when you're ready."  A stray piece of dirty blond 
hair was stuck at her neck, so he moved it gently.  "I talked to 
the Army psychiatrist, too.  He'll be ready whenever you are."

Her crystal blue eyes were open again, haunted and afraid.  "Do I 
have to?"

"No.  No, but I think you should.  You need to talk to someone."

"I want to talk to you."

There was pleading in her voice, and it made his heart squeeze 
inside him.  He moved another piece of hair, just wanting the 
contact.  "You can," he said slowly, watching the skin around her 
eyes relax and smooth.

She rolled again, slightly facing him.  Her lips were parted and 
her eyes were hooded; sleepy, seductive, content.

She was still beautiful.  Even with dishwater hair, blue smudges 
on her face and under her eyes, and barely eighty pounds.  Her 
lips looked pale and lonely, so he cupped her cheek in his palm, 
sweeping his thumb over them lightly.

God, he'd missed her.

Is this how those men had done it?  Placated her, lured her into 
feeling sheltered and protected, into opening herself to them 
silently?  Then they plunged into her and stole her power and 
security and strength?  Did they stop to see the person they were 
hurting, or did they just play with her soul?

He was leaning into her unconsciously, and she was starting to 
breath heavily.  When their lips brushed, she jumped and pressed 
away from him.

Is that what he was doing?  Playing with her soul to appease his 
own guilt and grief?

He snapped to attention, suddenly, and shook his head.  "I'll, 
um...I'll run you a bath," he told her as he struggled up from 
the bed, not looking at her.

Still and quiet, she watched him, fear draining away her energy 
until there was nothing left.

<><><><><><>

He waited outside while Dr. Michaels spoke with Scully.  The 
doctor's secretary was with them because Scully had been afraid 
of the big man as soon as she'd seen him, and wouldn't let him 
close the door without someone else with them, preferably Mulder.  
He'd taken her aside and quietly explained that it was important 
for her to be open and honest, and not to unconsciously try to 
appease him or be afraid to disappoint him, and the secretary 
became an acceptable substitute.  She was small, like Scully, but 
held her head high and shoulders straight, unlike her.  The way 
she used to be.

It had been an hour; Dr. Michaels said it wouldn't be more than 
forty-five minutes.  His leg was beginning to tire from being 
nervously bounced the entire time.

The tall oak door opened and Dr. Michaels, at least six five, 
smiled slightly in a very dignified, military way over the 
women's heads.  Scully rushed out into the hall, and the 
secretary stood in the doorway, waiting for orders.

"I want to go home," Scully told him quickly, not looking up from 
her brand new, correctly fitting shoes.

"Okay," he told her.  "Let me talk to the doctor for a minute."

She wrapped her arms around her middle and shook her head, rooted 
to the floor until he moved her.

"Well?"

Dr. Michaels sighed.  "Have you talked to other therapists about 
consultations?"

"No, why?"

"You have to shop for a therapist like you shop for a mattress: 
try a bunch before you decide.  The first one isn't always the 
best."

He understood.  "You can't treat her."

"I can treat her," he clarified.  "She won't let me."

Mulder nodded, glancing back at her.

"I can give you some referrals, though."

He nodded again, and the doctor barked at his secretary.  Scully 
jumped, and edged towards the door like a caged animal.

He had to get her out of there.

"I'll call you," he told the doctor, who nodded considerately.  
"C'mon, Scully."

She let him guide her to the car, but she closed her eyes as soon 
as she sat, effectively ending the conversation before it began.

"What'd you think?"  He asked needlessly.

"I don't like him," she said flatly.

"Why not?"

"He reminds me of my father."

Oh.  He hadn't thought of that.  "We can find someone else."

She was wiping her cheeks roughly.  "I don't want to."

"Scully," he said, sounding more frustrated than he meant to.

"I didn't come here to be pawned off on some psychiatrist!"  She 
screamed, voice hoarse and dry.  She coughed despite herself, and 
that only made her cry harder.

"Okay, okay," he soothed, reaching over to her.  "You're 
right...we'll...we'll take this slowly, okay?  If you don't want 
to go to a psychiatrist, you don't have to."  It was a lie, but 
it was what she needed to hear.

She took his hand, calming and slowing her tears.  "I'm sorry, 
Mulder."

"It's okay.  You tried, and I'm glad you tried."

"It didn't help any, though."

He couldn't argue with that, so he didn't.  They drove the rest 
of the way in silence.

<><><><><><>

Someone was screaming.

He grabbed his gun, tripping over the tangle of covers in his 
haste.

Scully was screaming.

The door to his guest bedroom had been locked, and he forced it 
with his shoulder until it gave with a splintering crack.

She went silent, save for a few whimpers.

"Scully?"  He asked cautiously.

She was on her knees, huddled in a corner, rocking herself.  She 
didn't answer him.

"Scully?"  He said again, kneeling in front of her.  "It's okay.  
You're okay.  Scully..."

She keened, long and soul-vibrating, before falling into his 
arms.

He whispered to her as she continued to cry and whimper in her 
sleep, carrying her back to his bed and settling her beside him.  
He pulled her close, and she quieted against his chest.

She'd never woken up.

<><><><><><>

She was taking an unusually long time in the bathroom, so he went 
to check on her and found her staring at herself blankly in front 
of the mirror.

"Scully?"

"Does anyone...know...who Peg Bundy is anymore?"

He stepped inside, the moist air still warm from her bath.  "I'm 
sure they do, yeah.  Why?"

"I want my hair back."

He leaned against the counter beside her, his back to her 
miserable reflection.  "It'll grow.  Or we could go to a hair 
place and get the color stripped."

"That's expensive."

He shrugged.  "I think it'd be worth it."

She turned her head towards him slowly, but her eyes were 
unfocused on his face.

"You never looked like Peg Bundy anyway.  You're much too pretty 
for that."

Her cheeks began turning pink and he grinned at her 
embarrassment.  It had been this way since she'd come back almost 
three weeks ago.  Easy, fun, comfortable.  He'd taken a leave of 
absence to help her get settled, and continued looking for 
someone she could talk to while she slept, which was often.  
There was the local rape crisis center, but he doubted she'd open 
up among the strangers.  There was the behavioral health center 
attached to Georgetown Medical Center, but he didn't want her on 
too many unnecessary drugs.  So far, old fashioned care and 
comfort had seemed to be working, though.  She'd gained weight, 
stopped shaking all the time, and began to smile more.

Maybe she was returning.  Maybe he'd finally done the right 
thing.

"Do you think Diana's pretty?"  She asked quietly, sounding so 
much like an insecure little girl it scared him.

The question caught him off guard; she hadn't been mentioned 
lately.  "Yes, I do.  You're both pretty in different ways."

She bit back what may have been an incredulous laugh.  "When's 
she coming back?"

He rubbed his eyes tiredly.  "She was supposed to be back 
already, but she keeps getting delayed.  Now she's saying early 
next week.  That'll probably change, though."

"Then what?"

"What do you mean?"

"What about me?  I can't stay here..."

"Why not?"  His curiosity was genuine.

She looked away, drawing patterns in the water droplets on the 
counter.  "I don't think she'd like that very much."

"Diana would like to see you doing better."

She swallowed, inspecting the toothbrushes and making sure they 
were perfectly aligned.  "Are you going to tell her?"

"Tell her what?"

"That we've been sleeping together?"  She asked in a tiny voice.

The nightmares were bad - worse than any he'd ever had, which was 
saying alot - and after a few nights of rescuing her from her 
demons, he'd conceded and let her sleep against him all night.  
It made her feel safer, and it made him feel useful and needed.

He took a deep breath, chewing his lip carefully.  "I don't see 
that it matters."

"It doesn't matter that we've been sleeping together, or it 
doesn't matter that she knows?"

"It doesn't matter that she knows."

A corner of her mouth lifted cynically.  "I don't know...I think 
she'd want to know if you'd been sleeping with a prostitute."

He pushed off the counter, suddenly angry.  "You are not a 
prostitute.  You're a friend who needs help."

She almost laughed.  "Oh, is that what I feel pressing into my 
ass every morning, you helping me?"

Caught again, he hesitated before answering.  "That's a normal 
physiological reaction.  You're the doctor, you know that."

"You don't want me?"  She asked with her best sex kitten pout, 
the one that separated too many men from too few bills.

What the hell was he supposed to do?  If he said no, he rejected 
her and pushed her away even further; if he said yes, he was 
betraying their unspoken deal that he helped her without asking 
anything in return AND betraying his fiancee's trust.

His silence was enough.  She licked her lips and closed the small 
distance between them.  Her fingers found their way to the waist 
of his pajama pants, teasing lightly, climbing his ribs like a 
ladder.

He tried his best to look disgusted instead of aroused.

"It could be me," she explained to him quietly, scraping her 
nails down his back and making him shiver.  "That's engaged to 
you.  Would it have been, if this hadn't happened?  Would it be 
me, Mulder?  Would you love me?"

She tipped her head up to his, inviting a kiss.  Her eyes were 
bright behind the pools of tears there.  She wasn't as confident 
as she pretended to be.  She was scared to death.

"I do love you," he said slowly, focusing on her light coral lips 
as he leaned into her.  When he touched them, they tasted of 
mint, vanilla, and regret.  He pushed her against the counter and 
she let him devour her passively.  When he was out of breath, he 
pulled away, panting against her cheek and rocking his hips 
lightly against hers.

Her chest, her tiny breasts, was rising and falling rapidly 
against his.  Her eyes were wide with shock.

"Do you love me?"  He breathed hot in her ear, tangling his 
fingers in her hair and not letting her go.  Ever.  Again.

When she didn't answer, he kissed her again until she broke away 
and gasped for air.  His helping her was obvious against her 
stomach, and she stroked it lightly, not looking at him.  He 
sucked at her neck and she kept leaning away, then back again, 
like she'd forgotten who he was and then remembered.

It struck him then how surreally wrong this was.  He pushed away 
from her, unwittingly trapping her against the counter with his 
arms.

"We can't do this," he said, slightly out of breath.

Her tears broke free and slid down her cheeks as she shook her 
head in agreement.

"I'm sorry, Scully," he said once he'd calmed himself down.  He 
stood up straight, feeling selfish.  "You okay?"

She nodded, licking her swollen lips.

"'Kay.  Um...it's late.  I know you're tired..."

She nodded again, breaking free and walking quickly into the 
bedroom - the guest bedroom, not his.

<><><><><><>

He needed to hear Diana's voice, so he called her.  She didn't 
answer.  He lay in the darkness, wondering if Scully would scream 
tonight, sucking at his lips and hoping to taste her there.

In her room, she lit a cigarette and packed her things quietly.  
She couldn't do this; she couldn't hang around destroying his 
life.  There was no use in bringing him down along with her.

He fell asleep with his head in "her" pillow, smelling the 
shampoo and soap that he'd missed.

On her way to the front door, she passed his room and almost went 
to him, crawling in beside him and letting him warm her.  It 
would be so easy to melt into him, to let him shield her from the 
outside, the pain, the memories.

She walked away from his door, closing her eyes and holding her 
breath.  So easy to let him love her.  Just a taste of it -  to 
savor once he was married and she was alone again.

She walked back, entering the room quietly and setting her meager 
bag down behind the door.  In the quiet and still, she could hear 
his deep breaths.  She exhaled and let hers match his.

He struggled to consciousness as she kneeled on the bed beside 
him.  It was nearly completely dark, and he reached out a hand to 
find her, to guide her under the covers.  Just like any other 
night.

"Dream?"  He asked thickly, smoothing her hair and not seeming to 
notice that she was dressed and not in her pajamas.

"No," she breathed against his lips.  They were close to hers, so 
she touched them lightly.

She let him lead again, but wasn't as passive.  He anchored her 
mouth to his with his hand at the back of her neck, her hips to 
his with his other hand on her waist.

"Scully?"  He asked once oxygen was necessary.

She nuzzled behind his ear with her tiny nose.  "Love me," she 
requested in barely a whisper.

He pulled back enough so that he could see the tears in her eyes 
glinting from the moon outside.  "I do."

She shook her head.  "Like this had never happened.  Love me like 
that."

He considered for a tense moment - what it would do to her, what 
it would do to him.  She was asking him to commit to her.  She 
was asking him to give her forever.

He lowered his mouth to hers again, and gave.  Slowly, gently, 
breathlessly, with plenty of "I love you's" around the edges.

This is what it's like, she thought as he carefully stroked 
against her cervix.  This is what it's like to have a perfect 
life.  He urged her legs higher on his back and drove deeper, and 
she stopped thinking at all.  If she kept thinking, she'd never 
be able to leave.

Minutes later, she lay beside him, her head on his chest, 
listening to his pounding heart slow.  He asked if she was okay, 
and she said yes.  He kissed her forehead and told her to go to 
sleep, smiling.  After an hour, he was asleep himself.

She wasn't.  Just a taste.  Time to go.  He had his fiancee and 
happy life; she was another leftover obligation, just like she 
was to her family.  For a while, it seemed like she belonged, 
though.

She carefully disentangled her limbs from his, dressed, and 
picked up her bag.

She left him sleeping, locking the door with the key he'd given 
her, then sliding it underneath for him to find the next morning.

<><><>End<><><>

website: geocities.com/lil_gusty